


Melted Plastic

by Sir_Lupa



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blowing shit up is effective in this one just trust me, FATHER/SON LOVE THAT I ENJOY, Father-Son Relationship, Fire, HEAR THAT, Hurt/Comfort, I dont run a smut community okay, Kidnapping, No Slash, Post Dbh, This is an angst fic okay, UNNECESSARILY COMPLICATED PLOT STUFF LIKE DRUGS AND ANDROID SCAVENGING WILL APPEAR, Very Hurt Connor, Very Not Okay Hank, be careful, bombs and shit, i never use ao3, more like scavenging, no beta we die like men, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-05-29 19:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15080483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Lupa/pseuds/Sir_Lupa
Summary: An investigation over what appears to be a suicide bomber leads Connor to discover much more than he expected.Or Hank is scared for his friend's safety, but Connor is too busy trying not to die while solving the case.Placed after the events of Detroit Become Human and Connor is an official Detective.





	1. Don't You Dare Die

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this today in a frenzied craze bc i am leaving for 3 days with no internet but when i come back i stg i will finish this.

“Ugh, Jesus. What happened here?” 

A first responder looked up at the sound of Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s perpetually grumpy voice, “Looks like a suicide bomber from what we've gathered.”

Blackened walls and scattered android parts definitely spoke of an explosion. Smoke dusted the air, floating in ashy clouds only separated by the light filtering in through windows from the sun outside. Any embers had long since burned out, leaving the Lieutenant and his (officially) hired android partner to pick through what was left. Although the blast had been relatively small, it was powerful, easily obliterating several androids in the shelter. Android Shelters were supposed to be a peaceful environment where abused deviants could find safety and comfort. The blackened, thirium drenched walls no longer offered any of the sort. Even months after androids were recognized as a species, discrimination still plagued the world.

Giving a glance behind himself, Hank could already see Connor hard at work. The LED indicator, of which the android had so stubbornly kept, spun a steady yellow as he processed through both evidence and his still-new emotions.

After a brief moment, Connor looked up at his partner. “The technology with which the bomb consisted of appeared to be homemade. Definitely not of android design. A very primitive explosion, but effective nonetheless.” 

To that, Hank gave a grunt, “Damn right it was effective. Can you hurry up and find out if the perp is dead? That would make both our jobs easier and we could go home.”

“Of course,” Connor replied, a small smirk tweaking his mouth, “You obviously have so much to get done at home. What was it again? A Tigers and Yankees game?”

Connor felt he earned the pointed look, especially since there was obviously no malice in his friend’s eyes. He gave Hank a smug grin, analyzing data even as they talked.

“Don't you dare spoil that fucking game, kid. It isn't my fault that Gavin is a halfwit who calls us in when the perp is long dead.” 

Crouching low to the ground, Connor inspected the center of the blast. Quickly, before the Lieutenant could see, he sampled the ashen remains.   
“I wouldn't be so quick to assume that, Lieutenant.” Rising from his crouched position, he explained, “There appears to be no human or android remains near the center of the explosion. It must not have been manually detonated.”

“Fucking hell, looks like a long day ahead of us, then. Get back to me if you find anything else, got it?” 

Connor nodded in response, his inner workings still ticking away, tearing apart the scene and putting it back together, slowly bringing the detective closer to solving yet another case. His career as a DCPD Detective had yet to see a bad mark, and the looks of the “daylight amateur bomber” seemed like another promising “Case Closed” stamp on a slim manila folder.

Despite his career as a detective (specifically for android cases) exposing him constantly to grisly sights, Connor found that dealing with his new emotions in a crime scene became a constant battle between logic and empathy. Seeing the desecrated bodies of fellow androids could be enough to make his LED briefly flash red as his stress levels rose. When the Lieutenant first noticed the recurring issue at each scene, he pulled Connor aside for a rare, genuine, comforting talk. Nowadays, the android wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed as he had been back then. A feeling of empathetic distress thrummed through him as he looked at the few scatterings of charred, plastic limbs and wires. What a way to go.

Judging from the way that the limbs landed, and from the evaporating thirium on the wall, he could decipher part of what had happened. Yet, there was something off. 

Turning to one of the few remaining first responders, he caught the officer’s attention, “Could you point me in the direction of the rest of the remains?” 

She turned to him, confused, “Excuse me?”

Connor raised an eyebrow, “The rest of the remains. Where are their torsos and craniums?”

The officer's confusion remained, “I was one of the first on scene, what you see is what there was. We don't move evidence, you know this, detective.”

Looking back at the scattered, ruined limbs, Connor realized the investigation had just become a whole lot more interesting.   
“Yes, I do know of such precautions, I apologize for assuming that the evidence has been tampered with. Thank you for your cooperation.” The officer shrugged off his apology politely, going back to whatever she had been doing before he approached her.

Distantly, he processed that Hank was becoming impatient. He never did like waiting that much. In consideration of his friend (and sort of landlord), he hurried to further inspect the scene. As he looked around the ruined shelter, he almost decided to move on, seeing little evidence in the destruction. Without an eyewitness or even the broken bodies of the androids, there was not a lot to go off of. Despite his own doubts, and Hank’s impatience, he continued to hastily examine everything of interest. 

After a few minutes passed, Connor was ready to admit defeat and scour somewhere else for evidence. However, the path of a few limbs caught his eye. Judging from where they landed, he could reconstruct how they reached their final resting place. One arm in particular appeared to be very different from the rest. Calculating where it came from showed that it could not have landed where it did, but it was there, nonetheless. 

Crouching once again, Connor peered down at the mass of melted plastic and scarred metal. A couple drops of thirium clung to the surprisingly smooth, exposed neck of the arm’s humerus. Once again, Connor checked to see if Hank was watching him, before he sampled one of the drops. The blue blood belonged to an older model but told him little else. Chemicals from the bomb were mixed into the blood, but it only further proved that the bomb was homemade; simple supplies had been used. 

He continued to inspect the arm, noticing again how smooth the detached end was. The synthetic skin also proved to be smooth; clean cut. This further evidence intrigued Connor. Had the limb been chopped off? It seemed like it. Even though it was damaged by the heat, it didn’t look like it had landed there, but likely had been dropped. So, the attacker planted the bomb, but got caught? Did they cut off the android’s arm? Looking once again to the severed limb, his scans showed that it would have had to been cut off moments before detonation. The thirium had not evaporated yet, but if the attacker had dropped the limb, where did they escape? Perhaps it was in fact an android that died with its victims. There appeared to only be one room in the shelter, not a lot of time to escape from where the arm was. Although….no one had gone around the back yet. They had no knowledge of how big the building actually was. 

Looking down at the ground, Connor scanned the slew of footprints that had marred the scene before evidence markers were placed. All of the prints came up as DCPD sizes and weights, except for a partly obscured print. Doing another scan, he noticed more snippets of the same prints in the area. Finally, we're getting somewhere. The direction was hard to determine, but another minute spent inspecting them, showed that the perp had in fact not come in through the front door, but from…a wall?

Before he could investigate further, a hand settled on his shoulder, almost startling him out of his bloodhound-like stupor. 

“Jesus, kid. I was just gonna ask if you were done here.” Hank said, in his own “calming” manner.

Connor shook his head, “Sorry, Lieutenant. I have found a few new leads, please bear with me.”

An aggravated huff escaped the older man’s mouth, “God, I hate it when you're polite.”

Stepping carefully, Connor followed along the wall where the prints led. “It was either be polite and hope you go away or threaten to tell you that the pitcher today is, as you would put it, ‘an idiotic piece of shit’ which could be detrimental to my health.”

“Alright, alright, alright! I get it, stop spoiling my damn game. Get back to it, then. I'll be around if you need me.” He ground out, still good natured despite his annoyance.

A small smile blessed the detective’s lips as he looked closer at the dark, charred wall. Running a hand along it, he noticed a groove at hip height. With all of the destroyed wood, it was easy to miss by sight. Letting his luck take reign, he tugged the groove both left and right. The sound of cracking, warped wood filled his ears, and blackened chunks fell to the ground or clung to his synthetic skin. Ah, a sliding door.   
With the now open doorway before him, he noticed that it led to a kitchen/washroom, with a door leading to a back alley.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” he called out to the main room.

The presence of the Lieutenant joined him as he peered into the other room. Connor heard him mutter something akin to “good job” but he was too busy to notice much. 

Turning to Hank, the detective pointed to the door, still distracted by whatever he was seeing on the floor. “I believe you may be able to locate evidence out there. I will join you in a moment.” He explained.  
His friend nodded, heading out the door with another officer in tow, tracking ash onto the tile floor. 

Connor could see long since evaporated thirium on the floor. A lot of it. The remaining parts of the victims must have been carried through there, meaning that the suspect was still alive. The thought sent a jolt of fear through his system. They would have to trace the suspect down, and said suspect seemed to be extremely violent.

Before he could investigate further, the arm from earlier caught his attention again. It looked like it had been severed when clenched in a fist. A thought whirred in his mind. Maybe…. Sure enough, after a great deal of prying, the hand came unclenched, the cracking plastic crumbled onto the object in its grasp. Lifting it from the destroyed fingers, the detective saw a familiar symbol; an Anti-Android Rights pendant. His hold tightened subconsciously as he looked at the slightly bent metal. So, it is a human, then. 

Standing swiftly, he followed the trail of thirium through the kitchen area, and to the back porch. A large portion of it disappeared to a backstreet, but a little bit of it led to a pile of garbage bags. Hank and the other officer had already gone to the backstreet, having followed the other pair of dark footprints from the soot. Warm sunlight didn't quite reach between the buildings as they looked around.

Curiosity got the best of the detective, prompting him to follow the smaller trail to the bags. He looked over the mound of garbage, expecting to see an abandoned android part, instead he saw a tattered jacket, covered completely in blue blood and whatever burned items clung to it. Picking it up, Connor scanned it carefully, which concluded that the jacket had been ditched soon after the explosion, and likely after the bodies had been removed. Draping it over one arm, he looked around some more. While he inspected the area, he began to mentally list what he knew about the suspect: They are human, they didn't seem too bright (having detonated a bomb and stolen android remains in broad daylight), they can build bombs, they are size 10 in men’s shoes, they weigh possibly around 180-200 lbs, owned or rented a vehicle big enough to indiscreetly transport approximately 5 barely intact android bodies, covered in blue blood and ash, and likely had a laceration around the neck from losing their pendant to a strong android. It didn't seem like much, but Connor was determined as always. 

Hank and the other officer were still searching nearby, so Connor headed back inside, trying to see if he missed anything. Although he doubted it, he began to wonder if the jacket had a name with it. Keeping it on the arm that had initially been holding the tattered clothing, he examined the areas where a tag may be. No good, any distinguishable markings had been removed, but the android detective could still easily trace it if he could just scan it and connect to…. huh, that's weird. 

The words “Network Connection Error” flashed behind his eyes. Cyberlife continued to supply wireless connection to information after the new laws were passed, why couldn't he connect? Stepping back outside, he tried again. Nope, still wasn't working. Damn, this is inconvenient. A memory of an article about Cyberlife repairs popped up in his mind. He didn't remember anything about them repairing the tower, though. Besides, wouldn't they have warned the android population? The new CEO’s seemed nice enough to do that. Maybe not, though. That wasn't his concern at the time.

Since his scan would prove useless without access to information on the local clothing lines, he started rifling through the breast pockets. Both pockets proved to be empty except for a gum wrapper that looked to be very old. The left bottom pocket was also empty, but the right felt solid. Reaching in, Connor pulled out a small notepad. Once he had determined the jacket to have nothing else useful, he put it where another cop would find it and log it as evidence. 

Only a couple things were written in the small notepad, there were multiple snippets of different languages, likely a feeble attempt at being cryptic. It was easy enough for Connor to translate. It seemed okay to scrap it by throwing it into the evidence pile, seeing as how it was mostly just chemical formulas for the bomb that went off and offered no insight about who wrote it and where they were. However, flipping through a few pages, he noticed that at the bottom of each page was either a sequence of numbers or a word or two. Starting from the beginning, he looked at the “shittily coded” message, page by page. 

 

From where he was, Hank could see Connor standing half in, half out of the doorway to the kitchen area. He knew it would be important for his friend to solve this case, but Hank wouldn't be lying if he said he preferred the “solved in less than an hour” cases. He was tired. Connor was (hopefully) tired, too. They should be home, it was their day off, after all. Note: was. The Lieutenant wanted it to be over with, and he couldn't help but wonder why in the name of sweet baby Jesus the kid was just standing in the doorway-oh, never mind, here he comes.

Connor was practically sprinting over to him. Hank wondered briefly if there was danger, but a glance around the street showed none.

“Lieutenant Anderson! Give me your keys!”

The detective barely slowed down as he reached both Hank and the other man. Adrenaline was already starting to build up in the older man’s system.  
“What? Why?” Hank demanded.

Connor didn’t ask twice, he reached to where they rested in Hank’s coat. Almost immediately, the Lieutenant tried to swat him away, a shout of confused exasperation on his lips. His partner was already sprinting back to the shelter with the jangling keys before Hank had even finished shouting “Connor! You sonofabitch get back here!”

He threw an exasperated look at the man next to him, who only returned a shrug and his own look of blatant confusion. A stream of profanities flew unevenly from his mouth as he jogged after his rogue friend. The officer he had been with followed him, just as confused. Inside the shelter, chaos had ensued. Several officers had already departed, the wail of sirens disappearing down the sunny street. 

Setting a firm stance, Hank bellowed, “What the hell is going on? Where the fuck is Connor?”

Several more officers ran out, jumping into their patrol cars, leaving one vehicle behind. 

The remaining two officers that had been inside looked at the Lieutenant, before one ran back out to start the car. The final officer looked confused too, he hesitated, but Hank’s glare got him talking.

“I'm not sure! The android rushed in here and said for everyone to follow him, and then he took off like a bat out of hell!” He exclaimed.

“Ah, fucking Christ. He has my car.” Hank groaned, he pointed to the final two officers in the shelter, “You two, stay here. I'm going with the last patrol car. Tell the station that something's up.”

Hurrying towards the door, he all but ran down to the patrol car, stopping it just as the officer attempted to pull out. Getting into the car, the race to follow Connor started. Despite his grumbling complaints and swears, he didn't know what was up with the android, and that concerned him. Vehicles pulled over to let them pass, but they still weren't sure where Connor and the rest of the officers at the scene had disappeared to. They were too slow getting out. Hank tried contacting them over the coms in the car, but all he got was either static or garbled nonsense from the station reporting minor incidents throughout the city.

“I swear to fucking God, Connor, if you crash my fucking car I will lock you in the house with only Sumo for company.” He growled under his breath. 

Deep down he knew he was just scared, but he let himself be overrun with annoyance instead. It was better than that gut wrenching uncertainty as to what was happening. It was almost ten minutes of trying to contact the others when am almost decipherable mess of words spat out of the receiver.

Both occupants in the cruiser froze, before Hank spoke breathlessly into the warm air, “Oh my fucking God, not another one.”

The code spoken over the speaker was for another bomb detonation, calling for any nearby assistance to immediately report to a Cyberlife repair store downtown.

“Go there.” The Lieutenant stated firmly, “Now.”

 

It was another two minutes before they arrived at the scene. Already, the premises was swarming with cop cars, ambulances, and firetrucks. The medics and a few policemen scrambled to triage the multitude of both wounded humans and androids. The size of the explosion was massively larger than the one at the shelter. The car hadn't even stopped all the way before Hank stepped out and ran towards the scene. A fluctuating stream of swears and yells were escaping his mouth in a trickle then all at once. Adrenaline powered every part of him as he surveyed the scene, hoping beyond hope that Connor had not been here. Why hadn't he contacted Hank? He could have called him when he left, he could connect to the Lieutenant’s phone with his mind, for fuck’s sake. Why hadn't he fucking called? Why the hell would he let Hank worry?

Everyone was far too busy to see if he needed anything. But he didn't need medical assistance, he needed to know if his dumbass blood-licking android kid was okay. Out of the corner if his eye, a Cyberlife truck peeled away from the scene, likely fleeing the chaos, and taking whatever merchandise it was carrying to a safe distance from the carnage. At the movement, Hank shifted his gaze in that direction. He felt his heart drop, just as fearful and heavy as watching Connor fall every time he was struck by a bullet. His car. His fucking car was there.

His adrenaline pushed him forward until he was practically running to his vehicle which was a safe distance from the burning wreck and injured people. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Connor! Connor! Are you there?” he called out desperately.

Looking into the windows, all he saw were the barren seats and car still unlocked and running. He opened the door and pulled the keys out, stuffing them back in his pocket where they belonged, looking around wildly for the mechanical idiot he called his friend. 

Many people were calling out for each other, and his voice joined theirs’. Concern was easily masked by a false anger that rumbled next to the numbing fear clawing its way upwards. Amongst the chaos, he spotted one of the cops that had followed right behind Connor. Running over to her, he pulled her away from where she was keeping an eye on a group of green-tagged triage patients.

At the sudden contact, she started, looking very frightened and wide-eyed, "Oh! Lieutenant Anderson! Don't do that!"

Ignoring her fright, he looked her right in the eye, both of his boring down on her, "Do you know where the fuck Detective Connor is?" His tone was dangerously, deceptively calm.

He had no idea her eyes could get any larger, but they did, "Y-yessir, he's the one that got so many people out. Last I saw, he was in there," she pointed to burning Cyberlife store, "I don't know where he is at t-the moment. He was evacuating everyone minutes before the ex-explosion."

Turning away from the frightened policewoman, he felt the fear tense into rough, unchecked anger. "WHAT THE FUCK, CONNOR? YOU BETTER BE OKAY Y-" he gagged on some unseen force, "You better be fucking okay."

The wails of more sirens cut through what would have been a calm, warm day, full of beer and baseball, and one of the only people he was willing to call his friend. Instead, what Hank got was stark reality, full of red and blue blood pooling together, coupled with the scents of burnt flesh and plastic. Of course, Connor figured it out, moments before another bomb went off. Of course, he was a fucking dumbass who had the self-preservation skills of a fucking dodo bird who had a strong urge to play the hero. All Hank knew was that he better be absolutely fine or there would be hell to pay.

All Hank wanted to do was watch the Baseball game.


	2. Black and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for being so late, wow. I've been super busy, but I also forgot to mention this Plot is a lot more complex than y'all probably think and I really should have made that more obvious. The upcoming chapters will hopefully be clearer on that, so warning about how they will escalate too. Drugs, android scavenging, loss of limb and sanity, etc etc. So fair warning, I'm really sorry for not posting and also maybe getting your guys' hopes up for a simple Angst fic, but lo and behold, this is not the case. I hope you guys enjoy it, regardless of all that.
> 
> I also apologize for my lack of planning and research. I did not investigate in the last chapter (which was hastily written in a 4 hour window) a lot of things i should have, so feel free to tear into this and tell me any inconsistent or incorrect details.  
> Also I still dont have a clue how to work Ao3 so that's a plus.
> 
> Thank you for waiting, I hope you enjoy this!

~~~~

Acrid smelling plumes of smoke continued to rise from charred, nigh unrecognizable, severed limbs. While most appendages on scene were unresponsive and marred beyond repair, living hands still dug through embers and ash. Hot plastic clung in dark spiderwebs to many surfaces, including Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s shoes and jacket. His hands were as dirty and ashen as the burned limbs resting amongst the rubble. They had dug feverishly through the scene as soon as it was made clear that a certain dumbass wasn't with the wounded. Now, they were tucked into his pockets, denying both to himself and the world that they were shaking. 

The patrol car that the Lieutenant leaned against was hot, and combined with his jacket, he began sweating. Every officer that passed by him was glared away, his emotions turning to autopilot to avoid being bothered. Few people remained on scene, they were elsewhere. Distantly he could hear those around him discussing multiple attacks that had occurred, and his ears perked slightly at the mention of an EMP used on the Cyberlife tower itself. Hank’s sour mood took very little in, however. His help could be used on the scene, but it was denied by Fowler himself. It took several officers to “coax” him from joining the search and rescue team, something about recklessness being unwanted.

All Hank had left to do was wait in the springtime heat. He hated waiting.

Captain Fowler’s voice cut through the smokey air, calling out to Hank. Lieutenant Anderson looked away from the scene to pierce his superior with his sweltering gaze. Detective Gavin Reed was at Fowler’s side, and Hank’s glare darkened even more.

“Lieutenant, as much as I'm sure you wish to stay, you need to take leave.” Fowler slowly explained, “This case has become a personal matter-“

“Stop giving me that bullshit! I ain't gonna just roll over and give the case away cause Connor got a little banged up. These kind of cases mean a lot to him, and as soon as he's able, he and I are gonna put our noses to the grindstone and find out who the hell did this!” 

Hank’s outburst must've been expected, because Fowler let him finish and Reed kept his damn trap shut for once. Neither of them mentioned that they had yet to find Detective Connor amongst the wreck.

Before Hank could start spouting more profanity, Fowler spoke again, “Yes, and you can do that, as soon as you go home and get some rest. The best way you can help is by keeping your distance until your partner can join you. I know you rarely listen to me, but for the love of God just fucking go home, Anderson.”

Temper flaring, the Lieutenant’s fists tightened subconsciously in his pockets. Like Hell he would go home. Only after he found that self-sacrificing dumbass would he be willing to leave the scene. He turned his attention back to the smoldering rubble, ignoring his Captain mumbling something to Gavin. It was taking a lot for Hank not to burst into an angry fireball of frustration. First not being allowed to search, then not even being allowed in the area? What utter bullshit.

The movement of Reed walking over to Hank’s car caught his eye. 

“Reed! What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he yelled out as Gavin opened the driver’s side and slipped into the seat.

Although the Captain’s back was turned, Hank still shot him one last withering glare before jogging over to his invaded vehicle. Opening the passenger side, he practically snarled at Gavin to get out of the car.

Mostly unfazed, the Detective jingled the Lieutenant’s keys before putting them into the ignition, letting the old car roar to life. Where the Hell did he get the keys? Hank must've dropped them, or maybe he wasn't as alert as he thought he was.

“Fowler said to take you home, and I don't plan on having more than one angry old dude out to wring my neck.” Gavin said, simply.

“I don't give a fuck what the Captain told you, you have no right to drive my car. Get. The. Fuck. Out.” With each harsh word, his ashen hands itched to knock the Detective’s lights out. Make that two Detectives, one for being an asshole, and the other for being an idiot who runs into exploding buildings. 

“Actually, I do have a right to. You're interfering with both the crime scene and the investigation. I have permission to impound your car if you don't comply.”

That was it. Pulling out his gun, Hank let his voice rumble dangerously, “I’d shoot you first if you dare try that.”

If he were in his right mind, the Lieutenant could have commended the younger man’s bravery (and/or stupidity) when facing his armed, unstable superior.

“You'd shoot me, huh? Then what? You'll be sent to jail, and your android will be kicked out of your dirty little house. Androids can't own property, remember?” he exclaimed irritably, “Just get in the damn car, Hank. Shoot me later.”

That pulled his strings more than he would admit. Putting the gun back into its holster, Hank mumbled about the amount of annoying bitches in the police department.

“I'm driving, it's my car, Reed.” He muttered sourly, his defeat grating against his mind.

Gavin simply looked him in the eyes and put the gear into drive.

Climbing into the passenger side, Hank’s angry mumbling continued. “Disrespectful fucking assholes, ‘respect your elders’ huh? No fucking respect in this goddamn police force.”

Before long, they were on the road, Hank’s adrenaline and anger slowly melted away into a puddle of anxiety. He longed to take control and head back to dig his friend out of the rubble, but his energy was quickly leaving him, and the day was inching to a close. Trying to push back the growing fears and uncertainty, he let his typical anger lash out again.

“It was our fucking day off, Reed. Fowler may be in charge and told you to call us, but you didn't _need_ to call us in today.” Something in Hank’s gut wanted desperately to blame Gavin for Connor possibly being injured and trapped. Yet, he knew it was the perp’s fault, whoever they were, and whoever they were affiliated with to orchestrate the multitude of bombs in the city and the EMP at the Cyberlife tower.

At the sight of Gavin’s shoulders sagging, the Lieutenant almost relented his attack. He'd never seen the snarky Detective so… tired. “Android related crimes are your guys’ department. No one else gives enough of a shit to properly investigate them. Besides, you weren't forced to accept the case.”

The stubborn, angry flame in the Lieutenant’s gut remained, “You know he couldn't pass it up, it's how he is. Doesn't know when to fucking stop.”

The Detective looked at Hank from the corner of his eye, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel, he chose not to mention that such a description could be applied to the Lieutenant as well.

Another minute or so passed before they pulled into the driveway of the simple building Hank called home. He reached his hand out to take his keys back, but Gavin paused, glancing at his phone before putting it back into his pocket. Hank, impatient as ever, snatched his keys away from the younger man, prompting him to get out of the car and off his property. 

“I don’t give a fuck if you don't got a ride home, if I see your ugly face again today, I'm gonna put a bullet in it.” The Lieutenant stated firmly, shooing Gavin away from his house.

Stepping swiftly away from the ill-tempered man, Gavin started his walk to the nearest bus stop. As he waited, he pulled out his phone, inspecting the two Priority Alerts he'd received. 

Priority Alert to Detective Reed: Anderson is to be kept out of the loop for now. The Force doesn't need him going haywire.

Priority Alert to Detective Reed: Android Model Confirmed. EOW Unconfirmed. [1 Image Attachment]

“Ah shit.”

The attached image illuminated his screen, the sickening sight of a heavily damaged arm sat next to the charred remains of another forearm in the rubble. On an evidence marker, a label was sloppily written, but still clear as day: Prototype Model RK800 ID ‘Det. Connor’

As Gavin boarded the bus, another alert lit up his screen

Priority Alert to Detective Reed: Until EOW for Det. Connor is Confirmed, New Developments are not to reach LT. Anderson. Personal matters do not bode well for this investigation. -Capt. Fowler

\---

 

Error

Error

Error

Error

Error

Objective: Repair

Scanning 

Contacting Cyberlife

…

Connection Failure 

EMP Pulse Detected

EMP Protection: Stable

Thirium Levels: 52%

Communications: Damaged

Error: Left Olecranon Connection Lost

Error: Right Humeral Connection Lost

Error: Burn Damage

Scanning Damage Severity

Scan Complete:

Major Damage to Brachial Appendages

Moderate Damage to Left Orbital

Moderate Burn Damage

Minor Damage to Left Optical Unit

Minor Damage to Left Patella

Warning: Pressure On Abdominal Biocomponents 

Remove Pressure 

Objective: Repair

EMP Pulse Detected

EMP Protection: Stable

Power On.

……

Errors continued to flash behind Connor’s eyes as he powered back on, his systems quickly going into Low Power Mode. It took longer for usual for his systems to come back online. He had no knowledge of his whereabouts, and without his systems’ cooperation, he wouldn't be able to tell. His sight had yet to activate and his audio receptors were only picking up the thrumming of an Electromagnetic Pulse. Movement creaked around him, ranging from twitching to harsh whacks and repetitive thumps. As chilling as the movement was, his audio receptors started picking up something more so.

Between each thrum of the EMP, a voice rang out, striking Connor with a gut wrenching feeling of distress.

Stress Levels Rising: 74%

A cacophony of thumps and clangs could not drown out the voice, a continual, distraught, keening voice trembling with fear, “No!” Pulse. “No!” Pulse “No!”

Over and over again in a maddening, metallic loop it trembled into Connor’s head, shaking him to his metal core. His eyes, why wasn't his vision functional yet?

EMP Protection: Stable

Stress Levels Rising: 82%

The movements stopped, and the voice rattled into a false silence.

He couldn't see. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see. Stress Levels: 89% 

Blinking rapidly he realized it wasn't that his eyes were damaged, but rather, obscured. A flutter of blinks and his eyesight was restored…with a halo of blue film over his eyes, tinting the darkness around him a deep navy and a royal purple against his LED’s red. And, sweet rA9, his mouth…it was processing incredible amounts of thirium, and it wasn’t his own. It was dark, the only light the small glow of red coming from his temple.

Warning: Stress Levels Reaching Critical 94% 

-Self Destruction Imminent at 99-100%-

Every inch of his deviant being screeched for him to move. He reached his arms out to push away whatever was crushing him, only to discover that he could not feel whether or not his arms were moving. He felt something grate uncomfortably as he focused on his left arm, having lifted it up to squeeze between himself and what he could only guess to be debris. As it pressed into his chest, he froze.

Where was his forearm?

In his panic he struggled, desperately trying to feel his arms. “Connection Lost” was an understatement, seeing as how there were no limbs to connect his synthetic nerves to. In his struggle he discovered the absence of his entire right arm, all the way to the socket where the head of his humerus should have been.

A large jolt shuddered around him, the sounds of settling material rumbling dissonantly in his ears. The pressure on his abdomen increased and he squirmed, inching his way to the lighter darkness and what his gyroscope told him to be upwards. He moved mainly with his legs, a slight stiffness in his left knee that ground his hydraulics together.

Connor was surprised by the consistent darkness. His memory clicked and whirred, informing him of how he had come to be so damaged, and where he should be because of it. His thirium pump continued to beat fast and hard, and as he lay on top of what he thought to be rubble, his simulated breathing switched back on to cool his overheating systems. Could it really be night? His internal clock told him it was scarcely into the evening, regardless of being in the dark rubble of a fallen building, there would be light, and definitely many noises.

Quick paced and efficient, the simulated breathing brought in cool air and exhaled the heat of his panic.

Stress Levels Decreasing: 88%

Seek Emergency Repairs

Thirium Levels Stable: 51%

EMP Pulse Detected

EMP Protection: Stable

Concentrating on something besides his fear and damaged body, he tried to listen for people looking for him. He heard almost nothing, the pulse of the EMP being picked up by his mechanical ears, and the roar of some distant machine or something akin to that. Every now and then the rubble would shift almost wildly, and Connor couldn't understand why.

Stress Level 84%

Where was everyone? Why couldn't he hear them? Despite the explosion, his audio receptors were not at all damaged. The panic washing over him  in unsteady beats remained a constant as he strained to hear. Again the roar, thumps, and whirs greeted his ears. 

Thirium pump beating wildly, Connor focused on his throat, checking to see if anything was damaged. Surface burns proved to be the only damage. Clicking his speakers, he tested his voice before he called out, rather desperately. A small crackle greeted his processors before his voice cleared.

“Lieutenant Anderson!”

The constant rumbles and whirs remained his only response.

“Hank! I’m here!”

Again, nothing.

Connor recalled the other voice when he first woke up, a curl of fear grasped him in response. The EMP still beat like the heart of a great beast, a threat to the RK800 despite being unable to affect him. It had killed the other android that had spoken. His model had been blessedly cursed with a way to counteract the effects of such devices, but his was the only one. Every other android in the area must have perished due to it. Why had no one found it yet? Maybe they were searching for it before they dug into the rubble. Connor hoped so…no other android deserved to die such a death; terrified and fading from the very inner workings of their mechanical minds. No one should have to die that way, but they had. And Connor was left with that burden of knowledge. 

Thirium Levels Stabilizing: 50%

Restock Thirium At Earliest Convenience 

Mandatory Low Power Mode Initiating

Stress Levels Dropping: 48%

Gyroscope Analysis: No Damage Detected

Speedometer Analysis: Average of 63 MPH

When Connor next came too, moonlight was pouring from a square opening, reflecting brilliantly on the dozens and dozens of mangled limbs and bloodied, burnt bodies of androids. There was no rubble, just an enclosed rectangle of people; blue and blackened. Olfactory sensors firing rapidly to smell the overwhelming scent of burnt plastic and sickening, thick blue blood. Boxes and limbs and dead, staring eyes.

WARNING: STRESS LEVELS AT CRITICAL 98% 

SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT


	3. Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's been 5 billion years since I've even breathed in the direction of DBH but it's always been my intention to finish this. I still have a couple more chapters after this one. Maybe I'll post more often when I get back into this? Maybe not. I have another thing I'm writing for Ao3 which is very much not related to DBH.  
> I just wanna write another chapter of this before I start the new story. Mainly because I wanna show I still care about this fic even if it's been laying in the dust since that feverish night where I storyboarded and immediately wrote like 2,000 words and posted the same night.   
> So here I am, storyboard back in hand. Some cringe and such but it's chill.  
> Also I keep forgetting my username is, yknow, that and it's always a lil jarring to log back on lmao.  
> Heads up: I've been rather inactive in the DBH fandom for an extended period of time so I apologize in advance for any weird, slightly out of character things and the complete and utter lack of real life research I've put into this since the beginning.  
> Enjoy!  
> Edit, March 30: I caught a short-lived cold but I've been writing every day for almost a week now and holy shit I did not think I was gonna crank out 4,600 words. Holy shit. The ending was kinda rushed and messy because it was like 1 am, oops. Sorry it's so super long and choppy but hey at least it exists, yeah?

Chapter 3

Scraps of muted cheers and excited baseball announcers trickled mutedly through Hank’s TV set speakers. Even set to 5, the volume seemed too loud from where he sat glumly at his dining table. If only silence wasn't so deafening by itself. 

Snoring ever so slightly, Sumo rested blissfully unaware of life's troubles on top of Hank’s feet, the large dog's clinginess as evident as ever. Hank could only stare blankly at his empty hand. Out of focus and distorted, he barely moved a finger to catch his own attention. His phone lay easily within reach, but he paid it no mind.

Hank was tired. Usual frustration bubbled up but never quite reached his nerves. Burnt out and throat itching from earlier, he chose some self restraint and forced himself to remain where he sat. He wanted to move. With his head resting on the rough tabletop, the exhausted Lieutenant exhaled in an airy grumble. 

It must've been late into the night, but the pale florescent light above offered no telltale sign as to how dark it was outside. 

Hank curled his fingers until the nails caught on the wood, “Stupid fucking Fowler.”

Sumo lifted his head at the sound of his master’s voice, his eyes half lidded and as tired looking as Hank felt. The Lieutenant reached down to pat his beloved Saint Bernard, but made no other move before returning to his slumped position.

Yelling at his superior had done no good in person. It didn't do any good over the phone, either. No questions had been answered. No worries quelled. Only threats, watered down just slightly, were made to keep Hank in his home in response to his desperate calls. The Lieutenant’s own threats were empty and wrought of bone deep fear and everyone knew it.

His throat gave out hours ago, successfully putting a stop to his attempts.

A silent, continuous string of curses kept rolling through his mind. Cursing his sobriety. Cursing the lack of any beverage to calm his nerves. Cursing that his forced idleness left a taste in his mouth more bitter than any alcohol.  
He was still mad. He was scared, too. If he weren't at risk of losing his friend, his job, or his livelihood, Hank would be out there in the rubble or in the precinct; anywhere at all that he could help. Stomach eating dread and guilt tore at him. He was mad. He really was. But apparently, that's not the kind of emotion necessary to help Connor at the moment. So, he was forced to roll over and do nothing. 

He hated it with every inch of his being.

* * *

 

As much as every synthetic fiber of his being wanted to, he restrained himself from moving even an inch. Connor pressed his LED into the debris, the distressed red became muted and unnoticeable.

WARNING: Stress Levels Critical 97%

Fear rampaged through Connor’s being as the world expanded from the sickly remains of his people to the outside expanse of crisp, thirium scented air and the pale moon. Whatever carts inside the vehicle slipped into the world with ease. The sound of people -humans, perhaps- milling about and making snappy demands filled Connor’s auditory sensors and did absolutely nothing to calm his life-threatening panic.

Any chance of freedom quickly fled as the bloodied android cart wheeled its way into a dimly lit building. The moon and stars and sweet air turned into crackling bulbs, chipped ceilings, and the overwhelming scent of chemicals and smoke. 

Connor remained as still as possible, unsure of whether or not he was doing so himself or if his fear had immobilized him. 

WARNING: Stress Levels Critical 97%

Barely an ounce of solace was to be found. The unnatural, lively pulse of the EMP lay blessedly silent in the halls of the disgusting building. Connor’s thirium pump thrummed strong and silent; his fear only present to himself.

Thirium Levels Stable: 50%

Panic trickled continually through him. He forced his eyes open despite his inner desperation begging him to close them and simply slip into an empty escape, an empty abyss of which to hide from this hopeless nightmare.

Connor tried desperately to keep track of his situation, to simply analyze and assess and work like he was meant to, but his senses refused to cooperate in his nerve-numbing stress. 

He was so scared. So scared and alone. Confused. Hurt. Hurt beyond repair? No, no. No. He can be repaired. He can be repaired, right? He just had to get home. He wanted to go home. 

Connor’s inner workings relinquished further to his panic. Even with his newfound emotions, he never showed many or felt many, but he could've sworn he was feeling every….bad emotion at once. All at once. Despair, dread, sadness, fear all clung onto his android mind. His systems could scarcely keep up. 

Subconsciously, his communications repeatedly attempted to dial and redial Lieutenant Hank Anderson again and again and again, only to be met with the terribly damaged communication system refusing to respond. Errors littered his fear in bright, unforgiving warnings.

The cart slowed as it reached another door. Evaporating blue thirium still clung to Connor’s eyes, even after what must've been hours of travelling to rA9 knows where. He couldn't see much beyond the disturbing mass of clumpy, disfigured limbs and bodies of androids among him. Nightmarish and horrid beyond belief. Bodies of what could've been a friend, leader, or more lay ruined beyond repair in a shitty, poorly lit room. A building that made poor Connor uneasy as his distressed analysis read the same things over and over again. His body still caused errors to flash in his hardware and his stress levels fluctuated wildly in the 90’s. 

A jerky stop put an end to the short journey within the building and room. The click of the door was the last sound he heard before the lights dimmed even further. Miniscule rays of splotchy crimson glowed from where Connor shoved his LED into some unfortunate deceased android.

Reprocessing over and over again, Connor was almost too afraid to move. To act. His emotions were strong and getting the better of him. He wanted so badly to press himself tightly against a soft surface and convince himself that he was home. He wanted to disappear amongst the mass of victims and find himself lost in Sumo’s soft, comforting fur in the Lieutenant’s safe house. Home to him was helping Hank, making him laugh or grumble at Connor’s snarkiness. Hank needed him to solve stuff, he loved helping Hank. Hank is his friend. His closest friend; a friend who always got angry at him for being reckless because he cares so much for Connor. If he gets grumpy at the android for getting just a little scratched up, Connor couldn't imagine how upset he'd be this time. 

Emotions. Emotions were so painful and confusing and getting in the way of analyzing. Connor forced himself to remember to act. That in order to get home, he'd have to move and not wallow in misery and actionless hope and useless despair. Data flashed before his eyes in the silent room. His pump seemed too loud and his panic kept activating and deactivating his simulated breathing to calm himself down. 

Stress Level: 89%

Recalling the many times Hank intentionally and unintentionally helped him control his emotions helped Connor calm down somewhat. He gathered what little wits and dignity he had left. He could feel the tattered remains of his precious suit tearing as he carefully pulled himself further out of now-hardened plastic and jagged metal. Clumps of fabric clung to his own melted synthetic skin that were too damaged to register signals telling it to change to more humane tones. 

Pale, sickly yellow light just barely covered the large cart he rested in. Distress still thrummed and resonated within him, but Connor knew he had to get moving. He knew he was in danger. His body was hurt. Damaged. Yet, he survived. He survived. He had to continue surviving. 

He grimaced as he struggled to find a functional, compatible arm. Connor’s scans were riddled with errors telling him things he already knew.

Maneuvering the pile was difficult and fear spiked up and down at the thought of whoever had done this would come back. He was scared and frantic, but his outward appearance betrayed very little of such. 

A full, mildly damaged arm rested stiffly near the far corner. With only one forearm left, the trek was remarkably difficult and he winced every time an error message flashed brighter within him at the unwelcome movement.   
The arm had suffered minor burns and what looked to be a bent pinky finger. Its owner was likely in really rough shape. After it proved to be compatible, Connor shifted and squirmed until he could press hard enough against it for the head of the humerus to grate and click into his socket. A few errors subsided and if he'd been breathing, Connor would've given a sigh of relief. Plastic turned to a pale skin colour, adding a feeling of welcome familiarity to his panicked mind. 

With the added mobility, it became somewhat easier to sift through what felt like an endless supply of thirium-soaked parts. Connor froze frequently at any sound that he thought not to be his own. Any hint of the cruel people immediately put him further on edge, but he was determined to find his last missing part. He was upset he couldn't find his own pieces, but time remained strongly on the threat’s side so he'd just have to make do.

A swift scan led him to another burn riddled, compatible arm. He propped himself upright this time, the dim lighting still offering him little help as he gingerly picked it up with his new hand. The model type was thin and the upper arm lacked half of its components, luckily Connor only needed the forearm. 

After all the destroyed androids he had gone through, he felt bad for tearing into the elbow joint and ripping off the ruined upper arm. The desecration of his fellow androids made his guilt at his actions potent and overbearing. Unfortunately his need to survive took priority over preserving the dead’s dignity. 

Those limbs once belonged to thriving androids who both held so much potential. So much life. They were dead. Remnants of their lives showed through their remains. The thin, effeminate adult forearm held scraps of nail polish and a child’s signature doodle designs. The whole arm with the broken finger possessed dozens of tiny, age old scratches, likely from years and years of harmful work environments. 

Stress Level: 86%

Connor needed to get out. Walls of stained concrete and double doors of metal couldn't tell him much about his environment. His new arms grated and clicked from the damage they'd been dealt. Climbing out of the cart, his scrappy clothes clung to his skin with half-evaporated thirium and cooled, melted plastic. A thin layer of golden brown dust plumed out from beneath his feet as he lowered himself onto the floor. One of his knees shook slightly and threatened to give out, making Connor grasp the cart for support as he looked concernedly at his obvious footprints. His shoes were barely holding together as he lightly scuffed the dusty floor again. A drop of thirium trickled down his elbow when he adjusted his grip on the cart, wetting a miniscule portion of the dry particles. 

Underneath his destroyed shoes, Connor could feel the softness of the dust. Concern over being easily tracked flitted across his overworked mind, but in his haste and fear the best he could do was simply swipe his tracks away with his feet as he limped carefully to the double doors. Other footprints quickly blended with his, allowing him to relax somewhat and walk without as much worry at being found. 

Pressing himself to the wall next to the doors, he attempted to peer out of the ancient, tiny windows on the doors. His low thirium levels did little to hinder the pounding of his pump as it pushed blue blood through his body at an alarming rate. Aged, dirtied glass only slightly betrayed the movement in the hall. Connor kept himself flush against the grainy concrete to avoid being seen. An inner battle of emotions and logic raced through him constantly.

Calculating the statistics told him dozens of different ways he could maneuver and the chances of success.   
With a goal in mind and tenacity in his limbs, Connor moved to step through the door and… he froze. Nerves shivered throughout him and he stayed where he was. What happened to him settled even deeper into his core and it terrified him. But he had to act. He had to. He wanted to prevent all of this from happening again. To get this all over with and go home. Resolve hardened, he prepared himself for action only for the sudden looming silhouette of someone opening the door to freeze him again. 

Despite his fear, he wasted no time in snatching the unsuspecting man and covering his mouth swiftly, allowing the door to shut itself as he grappled the struggling human.

Programming took over and worked almost seamlessly despite his injuries. It must've been all of a few seconds before Connor easily pressed him roughly against the disgusting wall.   
The mysterious man had a dark baseball hat that boasted one of Hank’s opposing teams, as well as a jacket that sparked a memory of the one he found at the crime scene earlier. Connor’s right hand held tightly pressed onto his opponents mouth, the bent pinky pressing up under the man’s chin.

The resistance he faced was minimal, but difficult to fight against with his joints trying to lock up and the errors flashing behind his eyes more obnoxiously than before. Connor planted his feet and forced the man to quit bucking and squirming by pressing what must've been painfully against him. His opponent abruptly stopped yelling into the androids hand and gasped into his palm. 

Satisfied with the compliance, Connor hissed threateningly into the terrified man’s ear, “Hold still and I won't hurt you more than necessary.”

Immediately the man went slightly more limp, his eyes wide and fearful, flitting around as they despairingly tried to catch sight of their attacker. Android power against a surprised human seemed perfectly fair to Connor at the moment; he took advantage of every opportunity when he could. 

It was hard, but he managed to coax the man away from the door and into a corner by one of the large carts. Any struggle caused Connor to tighten his hand around the man’s wrists, nearly breaking them and cutting off circulation. Guilt at hurting somebody dissipated at the sight of the vast expanse of android parts in the room. 

Tattered clothes bound and gagged the man tightly. Connor promptly took the jacket and hat and put them on as some half-assed disguise, as Hank would say. If the captive man weren't occupied with, yknow, being captive and bound then he probably would have protested more to the android taking his stuff.

Energized by the encounter, Connor made his way to the door again. He strode out with a faux confidence to mask his underlying panic and his prominent, mechanical limp. A purposeful stride brought him swiftly down the also poorly lit hall. He passed a couple other people that didn’t even spare a glance at his very ragged pants and burns and disfigured shoes. He tugged nervously on his sleeves to try and cover his mismatched arms. 

Honestly, Connor had no plan. None. Nothing. He wanted to sprint out at full speed and escape into the night, but his Detective side begged him to find out more before he did. He had no clue what happened or why or how to even proceed. 

The floors and walls were just as filthy and aged as everywhere else in the building. Golden, soft dust lay in thick layers and curled chunks on every surface. A little bit reached his face and lips as he walked and a tiny test showed that it was fine sawdust.

Distantly, horrific grinding noises screeched and shook the walls. His entire android life revolved around intense action and he was built for such, but he felt he'd had his fill. 

Rounding another corner brought him to a humongous open area with a metal roof and the open night air for walls. Dozens and dozens of people -all humans- flocked the floor, their movements swift, precise, and familiar only to them. Connor shivered at the sight of thirium coating monstrous, serrated blades and countless smaller ones. Blowtorches roared against dead androids, scenting the air with acrid plastic and fumes of blue blood.

Heavy-duty welding masks lined a wall near him. He snatched one and shoved it on, barely breaking his stride despite his utter horror. He could hardly believe his eyes. People did terrible things to androids, some he was responsible for, but none of it included such massive quantities of destroyed androids or raided parts and thirium. Crates upon crates of thirium pouches were stacked neatly inside and outside in trucks or cars or against walls or tucked in corners. 

Connor observed fearfully behind his physical mask, baseball hat shoved in his pocket. He locked eyes on the thirium crates, desperately trying to pretend he was part of it all. Part of the system tearing apart androids from his home city. Part of whatever grisly scrapping project this was. The grotesque warping of a whole, newly declared entity. He pretended he cared not an ounce about it. Connor walked stiffly towards the crates, popped off a lid, and peered inside. 

Delicate pouches of thirium rested within. Remembering his low levels, he carefully stuck a couple in the jacket pockets. Detective initiatives then made themselves known as he analyzed what it all meant.

He had to keep moving. Connor replaced the lid on top of the crate, eyeing the people nearby for any suspicion. Once he figured he was in the clear, he quickly took off the mask and plopped the hat back onto his head, reflattening his unruly hair and successfully obscuring his LED. 

Freedom lay at his fingertips, but he turned his back to it again. The open world remained so close, and he turned away on purpose to investigate the area. He couldn’t check as closely as he wanted to everywhere he passed.

Connor walked with no hesitation through doors and down bustling or empty halls. The building wasn't nearly as large as he first thought, but it was very tall. The center remained the tallest, where the large saws and open walls were. Everything else was wide, metallic, and/or made of stained concrete. 

A staircase caught his eye, prompting him to walk towards it. His stiff knee creaked and crackled with every step up the shifty metal stairs. Three flights brought him to the top where another metal door barred his way. It looked to be a supervisor office.

Connor’s confidence dwindled. His speed and energy drained and his proud Detective mindset turned tail, briefly. Would whoever is responsible be in there? What would happen if they were? Only one way to find out. With a stubborn jerk of his arm, he pulled the door open. 

Not a single living thing was awaiting him. A desk with no one behind it sat with its back to a grimy window. No one was there, yet papers and a laptop riddled the area, none of which were aged like everything else in the building and room. Connor couldn't help but feel like he'd hit the jackpot for Detectives. He limped over to the desk, relaxing enough to let his façade drop while he examined the papers and computer.

The laptop model looked old. Not many people bought or sold such devices anymore. Connor gingerly sifted through some of the papers, processing as he went before getting to the bulky computer. His life purpose was to investigate and solve cases, and this one was massive. He wanted every single scrap of information to take with him back to the precinct. The laptop was obviously password protected, but it’d be no obstacle to the android. 

Humour almost tickled the base of his throat as he thought about the ironic lack of luck his captors (and almost his murderers) were unfortunate enough to have. They chose to try and kill the wrong android.

Codes from the papers raced across his mind and everything pieced together with the help of the notepad from earlier, stored in his memory. One hand of painted nails clacked restlessly on the old keys of the laptop, its light casting deep shadows on the concentrating android. Within a few tries, the plain coloured desktop greeted Connor, displaying a few files and no other icons. 

In his energized state and deviant anxiety, he quickly clicked through each file and folder, memorizing and recording them as they flashed before his eyes. Within minutes he had gone through all of the files on the desktop. Everything had been coded, but a lot of it would be easy to decipher and some of it resembled the notepad and papers. 

Stress Level: 58%

This is what he loved doing. Solving crimes and helping people. He loved it. Connor desired so strongly to go through the device’s library and inner files, but his self-preservation skills finally kicked him into gear. He carefully logged off and shut the laptop, giving the area one last look. Nothing else jumped out at him to investigate.

Metal creaked and clicked underneath his ruined shoes as he quickly made his way back down the stairs. At the bottom, he almost ran into somebody going up. Acting as naturally as possible, he simply apologized slightly to the much larger man before slipping past. He kept his head down, frightened by the encounter.

Two piercing eyes bore into his back as he hurried away.

Stress Levels Rising: 80%

The winding, albeit short, corridors led Connor astray as he struggled to find an indiscreet exit. The men and women were already disassembling their own equipment and putting their gear away. Android biocomponents, new and old, were wheeled away in varying bins and carts. Metal and plastic were rapped in recycle bags and thirium lay in dozens upon dozens of crates.

Connor’s recall of the explosion he got caught in was faint and chaotic. His emotions seemed to corrupt his memory as he struggled to remember. There was no way, however, that so many androids and parts could come from one little store. Either multiple stores were raided the same way or a lot of collection came over time. Connor couldn't tell. Surely if so many androids went missing over a short -or even long- period of time, it would attract a lot of attention, right? The trail would be hot and easy to follow, wouldn't it? 

As the disguised RK800 padded down the hall, he couldn't help but wonder what everything was to be used for. Obviously scraps could be sold over several months and years across the country if every serial number was to be scratched off. A lot of scraps could rack up a lot of money. Biocomponents were getting expensive as businesses inflated prices to be valued almost the same as minor human organs. A thirium pump, even a suspicious one, could be sold for a pretty penny to desperate androids that can't afford the real deal. Red Ice practically hit rock bottom in the recent months due to thirium prices also rising and the amount of officers finally cracking down on the issue. The quantity of thirium could be enough to jumpstart a whole new red ice empire, or revive a dying one.

Speculations would have to wait for later, though. At the moment, Connor tried to focus on being unnoticeable while also observing everything. RA9, he really wished he could contact Hank or anybody at all. Lieutenant Anderson would easily be a godsend in his situation. Hell, he'd take Detective Reed, the pretentious asshole himself. He felt alone as murderers and conspirators transported hundreds of parts around him, chattering and ordering people around. 

It shook him to his core to brush shoulders with any of them, let alone have orders barked at him as he hustled past. He felt eyes bore into him, but he could never catch them with a glance. 

Fear boiled his blood and weakened his knees and realization sunk even deeper into his being, draining his energy. His feet turned to lead and he stumbled and almost fell into someone pushing a bin of thirium pumps.

So many eyes. He could feel them. He could feel their stares. They knew didn't they? Oh rA9 they knew! They must. They were all staring. His panic must be making his LED burn bright. Burn right through the ragged baseball cap. Burn right through his disguise.

They must've known. 

He picked up his pace, forcing himself to stumble forward with only pure survival marring his mind.  
He wanted out, good rA9 he wanted out.

Stress Level: 93%

“Dawson! For fucks sake, slow down! Stop!”

Connor paid the noise no mind, hurrying forward and shoving past workers. He could almost taste it. Almost taste the freedom. Sensory overload was on the horizon and the walls were somehow so so close together but too far apart to stumble to and lean upon. Everything was close and loud and annoying and frightening and he didn't even process before next thing he knew someone's broken, red-bloodied hand lay crushed in his own, the person sunken before him on their knees in blatant, noisy agony. His circuits clicked as he realized they had grabbed his shoulder to stop him. And he'd reacted by crushing their hand. Just as he finished processing, so did everyone else. Next thing he knew he was staring down the barrels of several handguns as human blood gushed between fingers of his poorly shaped hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao3 still confuses me and pisses me off omg.


End file.
